Page 53 of Weathering The Storm

Seth heads down to the deck and personally oversees the lashing down of all our equipment. One stack of pots coming undone during a thirty-foot wave could send us all into the ocean.

I watch through the wheelhouse windows for a moment as he moves with innate authority, the crew falling into step around him, awaiting his instruction.

The engine chugs along while I keep an ear peeled to our team communications. Listening to everyone rattle off their work and Seth, confirming last checks.

“Pots, secured.”

“Deck hatches, secured.”

“Scuppers clear.”

“Crew cabins, secured.”

“Galley, secured.”

“Engine room, clear.”

“All clear, Captain.”

Those last three words should settle me, especially when it’s Seth saying them, and for a little while, they do.

But as the hours pass, I can feel the energy building. Maybe not at first, but there exists a point in every storm where the effect snowballs. Each swell lifts the bow a little higher and drops it a little harder than the last.

I’ve got tunnel vision on the path ahead, one hand on the wheel making small, unconscious adjustments as the GPS tracks our position. A wall of turquoise on the navigation screen without a speck of land in sight.

Outside, the sky darkens. The reflection of the heavy clouds has turned the water graphite gray.

In the background, the marine radio comes alive with activity as other captains check in. Each report is worse than the last. One captain signs off mid-sentence and doesn’t come back on. Maybe a bad connection. I don’t let myself think about the other possibilities.

The forecast updates. Robotic in its delivery. As emotionless as the brewing weather.

“...This is a National Weather Service forecast for the Eastern Bering Sea. Small craft advisory in effect. Hazardous seas and icing conditions worsening. Winds increasing to fifty-five to sixty knots by early evening. Seas twenty to thirty feet. Mariners are advised to seek safe harbor immediately. The following zones are under storm warning...”

Forty knots. The system has nearly doubled its speed. I chew on those numbers, and the answer they spit back is not one I want.

We’re not going to make it to St. Paul.

I pick up the mic and take one breath. Just one.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday—Coast Guard Sector Juneau, Coast Guard Sector Juneau, this is fishing vesselSuoja.” I read off our coordinates from the GPS, then repeat. “Five souls on board. Storm conditions deteriorating rapidly, system has shifted directly into our course. We are unable to reach shelter in time. Requesting advisory and asking to be logged.”

Static. Then:

“Fishing vesselSuoja,this is Coast Guard Sector Juneau. We have logged your position. What is your current vessel status and intended action?”

“Vessel is sound. Intending to heave-to and ride it out.”

“Copy,Suoja.We’ll be monitoring Channel 16. Update us if your situation changes.”

I set the mic back in its cradle and radio to Seth. “Rittenburg, Rittenburg—Captain. Can you meet me in the wheelhouse?”

“Copy, Captain.”

He can already tell something’s wrong when he comes through the door and sees me swinging the bow around, repositioning us to meet the waves at forty-five degrees and pulling back the throttle.

“Change of plans. Storm’s shifted, we’re meeting it head-on. May only have an hour or two before conditions worsen. Make sure everyone has their survival suits on. We’re gonna have to stay on top of ice removal, and this one’s gonna be a bitch.”

We’ve weathered some shit conditions together before. Enough times that I know we’re both more anxious than we’re letting on. For the good of the crew, but also, for the good of our own mental states. A storm like this drains you. You have to go into it full-energy, full-focus.